


Saints Out After Curfew

by JennaCupcakes



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21992095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: Hosea broke the evening of the fourth day after Bessie’s death.
Relationships: Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 13
Kudos: 62





	Saints Out After Curfew

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago I saw some [Vandermatthews doodles](https://twitter.com/StupidTemplar/status/1201483771901628417), the gang talked about them, one thing led to another and then I decided I needed to write about blow jobs as a coping mechanism. 
> 
> Title is taken from Dessa's 'Good for You'.

Hosea broke the evening of the fourth day after Bessie’s death.

She had gone peacefully in the end, her face lit by the candle at her bedside, with Hosea holding her and crying more than Dutch had ever seen him cry in his entire life. He’d shown no sign of shame, just let the tears fall, and Bessie had laughed at him for being such a sap. That had made it worse, that she’d been so cheerful right up till the end.

Either way, she was gone now. They‘d buried her, built a little headstone, and the only reason they were lingering around — though Dutch would not admit to it unless forced — was that he couldn‘t bear to tear Hosea away from the place where they‘d just buried his wife.

Hosea had borne no outward sign of grief on the first day. The second had been much the same, though he’d looked tired.

Dutch had taken Arthur aside, nevertheless.

“Might need you to do something for me, son.”

Arthur – young, earnest, eager to please – had nodded with the seriousness of a young man who, for the first time in his life, began to understand the severity of life and death. How personal and close and ugly it could all get.

“Of course.”

Dutch couldn’t even remember what that felt like, feeling the chilling touch of mortality on one’s life for the first time. All he remembered was his mother crying.

“Hosea might need some time alone soon. When I tell you, just take John into town. Here’s some money for a hotel room. I –“ Dutch pursed his lips, looked at Arthur for a second and realized again that he was not as young as Dutch still thought he was. “Ah, the two of you’ll be fine, won’t you?”

And he’d ruffled Arthur’s hair.

The third day, Hosea began to slip.

Dutch had kept watch over Hosea, not a good hunter of animals but always a good study of people. A keen observer of human nature. In anticipation of the eventual breakdown, he’d pulled Susan aside, too, while she was taking her shift of the watch with a beer in her hand and a shotgun on her lap.

She’d just laughed.

They hadn’t been romantically involved for a year, maybe longer, back then, but Dutch had still harbored a fondness for that laugh — ugly as it was, full-bellied and carefree, shaking her whole body. Dutch had never thought it made her beautiful, but it made her something better. The sound was familiar to him, a more lasting comfort than beauty. It made her a friend.

That surprised Dutch.

“Whatever he needs, whatever you’re gonna give him, you won’t even know that I’m there.”

Dutch watched her carefully, because he didn’t know what she was implying and yet did, and he was angry at the implication even though she was right.

“You know, I always knew it was never gonna last between us, Van Der Linde.”

That surprised Dutch.

“You did?”

Susan gestured between the two of them.

“We’re too alike, you and me. We both want the same things. That doesn’t work out too well when we’re both the ones taking those things and there’s a limited supply to go around.”

She shook her head.

“Nah. The way I see it, you can’t last in love if you’re too alike. Simply doesn’t happen.”

He’d tipped his bottle to her and she’d responded in kind. It was a strange moment to realize he still loved her, but he took it. Susan would prove to be one of the only lasting friendships in his life, and that was a kind of love he had rarely known.

The fourth day, Hosea looked like a fraying rope, coming apart at the edges.

They had taken up residence in an old farmstead. It had just been Hosea, Dutch, Susan, and the boys back then — things simpler and yet just as complicated, the past only ever simple in hindsight. What clued Dutch in to the fact that the moment he’d been keeping an eye out for, had been dreading as much as anticipating had arrived, was Hosea yelling at Arthur.

Dutch still hadn’t gotten over the habit of referring to the pair of them, John and Arthur, as boys, though they were both beginning to resemble men now, in body at least, if not quite in spirit. Arthur was the one who shouldered responsibility better, John still had some trouble with that.

And so, it was strange that Arthur, out of the pair of them, should do something to draw Hosea’s ire.

“Sloppy,” Hosea said, “You’re sloppy, Arthur.”

A great many things could be said about Arthur Morgan, but that he did his work sloppily was not usually one of them.

“I was just—“ Dutch could see Arthur swallow his rage, work through it as they had told him so many times. “I’m sorry, Hosea.”

There was a bag of grain next to the feeding station. Dutch imagined Hosea’s irritation had something to do with that, though he couldn’t quite picture what.

“It’s alright, son.”

Dutch stepped in, put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and gave him a meaningful look, turned so that Hosea couldn’t see his face.

“We talked about this.”

Arthur pressed his lips together, the taste of responsibility bitter on his tongue in all likelihood.

“Yes, Dutch.”

Dutch put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, hoping some of the pride he felt could be expressed in such a simple gesture. He had faith that Arthur would find John and get them into town as unobtrusively as possible. Good, reliable Arthur.

Dutch sat down next to Hosea.

The man looked tired. Dutch had never seen a man look so tired before, and they’d both stayed awake for days after night watches and little sleep, nearly falling out of the saddle, eyes drifting closed, but this was different. This was exhaustion so deep it shrunk Hosea, accentuated the shadows under his eyes, made him something nightmarish.

“You know he didn’t deserve that.”

Hosea sighed.

“It’s that bad, is it?”

“You’ve been deteriorating.”

Hosea barked out a dry laugh.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Dutch glanced sideways at his friend. The smile on Hosea’s face was all practice, no emotion, and then it twisted into a grimace and Hosea turned his face away. He sobbed.

“Goddamnit,” he said, “Goddamn, I was doing so well.”

Dutch left him that illusion at least. There would be time later for correcting it. For now, he put a hand on Hosea’s shoulder.

He rarely touched Hosea anymore. With good reason.

Hosea’s shoulder was bony — muscular but bony. Dutch let his thumb stroke lightly over the part where the waistcoat ended, and Hosea’s collar began.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Hosea grinned crookedly, tiredly at Dutch. He was aware of Dutch managing him but allowed it. Dutch tried not to read too much into it.

The homestead had a guest house besides the main building – more rundown, two rooms that were barely worth the name, but at least it wasn’t the house Bessie had died in. They had set up Hosea in the rickety bed.

Dutch had set up on the floor in the antechamber.

Hosea leaned against the wall next to the fireplace, lit a cigarette. Dutch noted the tremor in his hand, the way he took too long for simple movements like they were taking everything out of him.

“I can’t go on without her, Dutch.”

He sounded so tired. He sounded so, so exhausted.

Dutch stood, arms at his side, feeling awkward and useless. He had no idea what to do.

“You know you’ll go on, eventually,” he said.

Hosea scoffed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Dutch’s hands itched. He wanted to touch Hosea. He didn’t, with good reason.

“Take your time,” Dutch said, “We can stay here a while. There’s business in town.”

Hosea turned away, the hand that held the cigarette hanging limply at his side. A sob wrecked through him.

It broke Dutch. Hosea was always good-natured, sometimes angry but never hopeless. He was the eternal optimist, preparing for the worst but always hoping for gold around the next corner, a good score on their next robbery, stupid law enforcement and cooperative victims during their next bank job. In all their years together, Dutch had never seen Hosea like this.

He had to hold him.

Hosea turned into the embrace, buried is face in Dutch’s shoulder. He shook with every sob, his body so frail in Dutch’s arms. Dutch let out a careful breath, one hand settling between Hosea’s shoulder blades, the other one on the small of Hosea’s back. Like that, Dutch could just pull Hosea in and wrap him up completely. Engulf him. Envelop him. Keep him safe.

Hosea shuddered.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “Shit, Dutch, I’m sorry.”

It took Dutch a precious second to figure out what the hell he was talking about.

“It’s fine, Hosea, you went through a lot, you—"

It dawned on him rather suddenly, a shift of their bodies where Dutch held Hosea gently, their bodies pressing together at just a slightly different angle —

“You’re...”

“Dutch, I’m—"

The hard line of Hosea’s cock pressed up against Dutch’s hip. Hosea’s blue eyes, red-rimmed, desperate. Dutch’s mouth, dry, himself dumbstruck.

“— sorry,” Hosea finished. His arms relaxed, but he didn’t quite let go. And Dutch wouldn’t dream of letting go now.

“No, don’t be,” he said, half dazed, ready to laugh it off before he revealed things he’d rather keep buried, make more of a fool of himself than he’d already had, “You miss her, I understand, it’s normal...”

He stopped himself. It was too much to hear himself talk, pathetic in how desperate he was. He wetted his lips, stared at Hosea.

“Dutch, you know I would never...”

They couldn’t even speak in full sentences. If they didn’t speak of it, they could deny it if necessary. Dutch knew this game. Had played it, in fact, but never with Hosea.

“I know,” he said, wanting to lean forward and finding himself doing so simply because denying himself seemed an impossibility at this stage. The thought of leaning forward alone transformed it into action, and Hosea seemed drawn in the same way.

They kissed like two men unaccustomed with gentleness who found it necessary to be gentle for the first time. A hesitant affair, a taste of breath more than a touch of lips. Dutch was shaking — unbelieving, desperate, wanting to reach out and afraid that if he did, this would all prove to be an illusion.

It wasn’t an illusion.

“Please…” Hosea whispered, “God, Dutch, I’m sorry, please…”

And Dutch, lacking a sense of self-preservation – “Anything, Hosea.”

Hosea drew up a chair. It was small, rickety, laughable, and Hosea fell down in it like his strings had been cut. Exhausted and shaking, wide-eyed and desperate. Dutch dropped to his knees before him – just like he’d imagined it, and nothing like it at the same time.

It wasn’t an illusion.

Dutch had to close his eyes, compose himself for a second. If he thought about this for too long, he might remember why this was a bad idea – Hosea would regret this and Dutch wouldn’t, at least not for the same reasons, and that was a recipe for disaster. He didn’t want to remember all the reasons why he _shouldn’t_. Not when the reason why he should was sitting in front of him, with eyes that begged Dutch to take advantage of him.

Shit, Dutch was so easy for willing victims.

He opened his eyes again. Hosea was still staring at him like he wanted to run and shove Dutch’s head down into his crotch at the same time. Dutch licked his lips, leaned forward – maintaining eye contact with Hosea – and planted a soft, gentle kiss against the bulge in Hosea’s slacks.

Hosea let out a kick of a breath, hands balled into fists at his sides.

Dutch did it again.

The fabric was rough under his lips, but the suggestion of Hosea’s dick was plain enough even constrained by the fabric. Dutch imagined he could feel the heat of skin, could almost imagine what it might feel like to get his mouth on it even if he couldn’t work up the nerve to do it quite yet. He just kept peppering small kisses along the line of it, hearing Hosea’s breathing come uneven and shallow.

Dutch almost lost it the first time when Hosea ran a hand through his hair, then took a hold of a handful and pulled – tightly, insistently. It made Dutch aware of the hardness in his own pants with a painful immediacy, and he couldn’t help the keening noise that escaped his mouth.

Hosea didn’t look sorry.

“Please,” he said again, desperate but not brave enough to articulate what he wanted, evidently. Dutch didn’t have the strength of character to tease him about it. Not when he’d wanted this for so long.

Opening another man’s pants while kneeling at his feet to get his dick out, hands shaking because he’d wanted this for so long, was harder than Dutch would have thought, but he managed. When he did, one hand on the smooth skin of Hosea’s dick, Hosea let out a sigh that became a sob.

Dutch swallowed him down.

He’d thought about this. He wasn’t proud of it, but he’d thought about this – about how Hosea would sound, what he’d taste like, if he’d let Dutch set the pace or if he’d sink a hand into Dutch’s hair as he did now and guide Dutch to where he wanted him. Dutch had had a hard time imagining if he’d let him, if he’d enjoy this, did not know what to do with the knowledge that he did.

He was not a man who sat easily on his knees.

Hosea made small, choked noises, hand pressed over his mouth. Dutch could feel him shake. Dutch’s mouth on him seemed only part of the reason for that. He was breaking down, collapsing, one load-bearing pillar at a time.

Dutch was determined to make him forget about that. He relaxed his throat, took Hosea deeper and the hand over Hosea’s mouth dropped to his side.

Dutch wished for less determination when he heard the name Hosea had been trying to keep from slipping out.

“ _Bessie_.”

It was the one thing that could have made Dutch pull back. Hosea released the hold he had on Dutch’s hair. There was a string of spit dripping from Dutch’s mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. Looked up at Hosea. Hosea looked back at him, ashamed and apologetic.

Dutch knew he should walk away. He was so hard it hurt.

He swallowed Hosea back down.

Hosea moaned his surprise, all desperation and relief and so earnest that Dutch had to press a hand against his own dick to keep himself from going crazy. The weight of Hosea’s dick in his mouth, the pain in his knees and the pressure of his own hand were almost too much in combination, and he quickly withdrew his hand. He didn’t want to come like this. He shouldn’t. This was about Hosea, not him.

This was about Hosea, and the way he trembled when Dutch sucked at the tip of his cock, then swallowed him down again, the noise he made when Dutch moved his tongue against the tip, the moment his hand came back to rest in the curls at the nape of Dutch’s neck.

Dutch could feel it when Hosea neared his orgasm – it was in the twitching of his hips and the way his fingers curled tighter into Dutch’s hair – but that still left Dutch unprepared for the moment when Hosea shoved his hips upwards. Dutch pulled back reflexively, and Hosea let him go, and then Hosea was coming. It hit Dutch’s face, the front of his shirt and Dutch sat dumbstruck, letting it happen.

Hosea caught Dutch’s wrist. Dutch looked up at Hosea for a second, then remembered why that was likely to be a spectacularly bad idea – he didn’t want to know the thoughts that were probably already plastered all over Hosea’s face. Or worse, he didn’t want to face the blank mask of Hosea, the one he put on when he didn’t want others to know what he was thinking.

Dutch stood, a little shaky on his legs. Nothing that wouldn’t be better come morning.

The emotional fallout was likely to prove the more lasting problem.

He didn’t want to stay. He couldn’t stay. He was still hard, bordering on desperate, and if he stayed, he might do something unwise, like ask Hosea to reciprocate.

He wiped a hand over his face, then pulled out his handkerchief in an attempt to clean himself up. He noticed his hands were shaking.

“Dutch,” Hosea said, his voice hoarse, but the tension less evident than it had been earlier. He sounded like a man who finally had a chance at some restful sleep.

“It’s fine,” Dutch said, in a tone he’d learned to keep, a tone that left no room for argument because it contained the final argument. “Just rest, Hosea.”

Hosea nodded.

“I will.”

Dutch left quickly.

He only stopped once he was in the old barn, behind some crates tucked away at the back of it, flopped to the ground gracelessly, legs splayed wide. He wrapped a hand around his dick, stroking himself quickly, frantically, the taste of Hosea’s dick still in his mouth and the last of his come drying on his face, his scalp still tingling where Hosea had grabbed his hair and held on tight.

His release came as a relief that solved nothing at all. He pressed a hand to his mouth, bit down hard in an attempt to muffle the noise, bucked into his hand and wished for the ability to erase the memory of everything that had just happened. He wouldn’t forget about it, that was for sure, but he’d have to if he ever wanted to look Hosea in the eyes again.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also yell at me on [tumblr](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> If you feel particularly kind, leave me a comment.


End file.
